


I Can Barely Say

by jennylastname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Style, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Doctor John Watson, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt John Watson, Love Confessions, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion, Smut, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian John Watson, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 20:44:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18858757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennylastname/pseuds/jennylastname
Summary: Holmes is dead and Watson writes him letters that he leaves at 221B, on the mantelpiece. It is supposed to give him a sense of closure. Watson never intended for anybody to read those letters in which he pours his heart out, one last time.





	I Can Barely Say

**Author's Note:**

> So I stumbled upon the song 'I Can Barely Say' by The Fray and it gave me this idea for a short story. I hope you'll enjoy!

In the year 1895, I had been struggling to come to terms with my dear friend’s death. It had been four years since he left an aching void in my life, and shall I say, my heart. Holmes had fallen victim to the Reichenbach Falls, that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam, with his greatest nemesis, the one Professor Moriarty. Not one day since his demise had I not felt remorse, regret, and grief. I always believed I could lean on him and I believe he always relied on me. How alone he must have felt, how betrayed to see that I was not there to help him when he needed me the most. Every day since then, I have tried to honour my friend, I have tried to do better. I try with the utmost and endless dedication to use Holmes’ peculiar insight in all things, try to overcome my dullness and narrowness of mind. More than once, he abased me on such things. He believed himself to be above the ordinary mortals. Let it be said, Holmes could be egotistical and impulsive but always rational. One thing however that my friend never lacked was conscience. I believed him to be over-rational at times when he would put anything above his own well-being, but Holmes had a heart. Holmes saved so many lives and I recall him telling me he was no hero, nevertheless, using his sometime egotistical manners, Holmes was a hero to me, not because I idolized the way he would save lives regardless of danger, Holmes was a man with a conscience and at times, I believe he wanted to hide that part of him. But Holmes was not a hero because of that, Holmes was a hero because he saved me, so many times and in so many ways. Holmes gave me purpose when I was living an idle life and was bound to wither away. I owe him so much, I owe him my life, which is to say I would have done anything to save him had I been able to, regardless of what would have happened to me.

Consequently, I am never able to forget about the guilt surrounding me, and at night, suffocating me. Every night or so, I have a nightmare, and no matter how fast I run, I can never get there in time to save my friend. But then, there are also dreams. In those dreams, how I wish they never end occurring, my friend is alive and well. Sometimes, just a smirk in my direction and I wake up sweating, hoping for a different outcome than the one he had been dealt, waking wishful for another denouement.

I miss Sherlock Holmes and my life with him. I have been reliving our most notorious cases, trying to write about cases that I am now allowed to share since some time has passed, and yet, I find myself always writing the cases with the romanticism he accused me of, and now, with melancholy and nostalgia. I have tried to pick up my pen and deliver the amazing stories not yet told to the public, but every time I try, I end up with one too many drinks and a great deal of pain, and most often, I cannot control my tears, letting them run down my face at an alarming pace.

Over the years, I always chastised my friend when he was showing extreme antisocial behaviours and a lack of judgement when insulting people. In a way, I took it upon me to be his social and moral compass, to be the balance he sometimes needed. Yet, I would give anything for another snide remark or insult upon my limited mind and person, if it meant he was still here.

Over these last four years, I have never tried to meet someone, or move on with my life. For one, I am not suited to be anybody’s companion, I fly from domesticity unless it is one I can share with Holmes. Another reason for not marrying is that my heart was taken, is taken, by an eccentric and obnoxious man, the one and only friend I have failed, Sherlock Holmes. He beguiled me into a sentiment he would despise. I do not want to dwell upon this matter for now.

Over the years, the loss should have been easier however the weight on my shoulders never seemed to go away. One day, as I was walking along the streets of our dear London, I accidentally fell down and one detective inspector Lestrade was there to help me up. Looking into my eyes, I could tell his burden was weighing on him, too. Lestrade always felt responsible for Holmes in some way, and he had not been dealing with his death well, either. He did look better than me, but it was no hardship, believe me.

It is when we sat down in a pub that afternoon that he told me about writing to Holmes, of how that helped him make sense of it all, to apologise and ask for redemption, even knowing Holmes will never read it. I almost believed him a complete fool until his idea made sense, after many drinks. He was right of course, writing it on paper as to let it out is probably a sane idea. What a brilliant man, indeed. I told myself I would thank him for the idea next time I saw him, this time hopefully not waiting years before seeing him again.

On a cold and windy night of November, I sat down with a glass of brandy, decided once and for all that I would take up my pen and write to my dear friend. I wanted to find a sense of closure after all these years, and an attempt would not hurt me, at least not any more than I was hurting at the moment.

>   
>    
>  _My dear Holmes,_   
>    
>  _This is one of many letters I tried to write time and time again, trying to find suitable words for a man who would not have it any other way. To be fair, Holmes, you shall never read this hence I do not know why I find myself caring about my phrasing. In a way, I believe this part of you will always remain, however hurtful I’ve found your honesty at times, I was glad I could always rely on you to be true._   
>    
>  _You would admonish me, but bear with me, Holmes, because I have to say and it pains me to share this... but I greatly suffer your loss each time I walk the streets of London. I wish I could have saved you from yourself, from Moriarty. I suffer your loss with the worst and most suffocating feeling of remorse, not only because you were the wisest and kindest human I have ever had the good fortune of knowing but because there is still a lot that went unsaid between us._   
>    
>  _I hope you knew in your final moments that you were the best friend I could have ever hoped for. I find comfort believing you may have known how truly precious you were to me. I will always cherish you and your memory, my dear._   
>    
>  _I hope you are peaceful, wherever you are now._   
>    
>  _Yours,_   
>    
>  _Watson._

 

It had been one month since my first letter to Holmes, and I visited our old lodgings at 221B Baker Street a rainy Monday. I could have sworn I could still hear the beautiful sound of his violin, the sounds of our many arguments and mostly, of our shared laughs. How I loved the euphony of his laughter. Missing him dearly still, I convinced myself that putting the letter here, in the place where I shared countless happy memories with him, I could find comfort. I put the letter on the mantelpiece, sat down in my armchair and revelled in the feeling I had. This was still my home, even if I lived somewhere else now. I took a deep breath and tried to calm my breathing, knowing full well as a physician that I was on my way to a dreadful panic attack. I was able to calm down eventually and walked back to where I lived now, finding the silence so deafening as to go out for a drink. Or many.

It is with a hangover that I took up my pen again, trying to let out more of my grief onto paper.

>   
>    
>  _My dear Holmes,_   
>    
>  _I find myself at an impasse._   
>    
>  _I remember with great warmth of how we used to talk about anything and laugh, with a fire burning so bright and a glass of brandy, all these nights when we shared rooms. I should have cherished those moments, that comfortable atmosphere. I wished I could relive those moments and cherish them for what they were; utterly precious. Had I known our time was to be this short, I would have made an effort to remember these moments in great details. You would chastise me, I know, for not being able to use my brain at full capacity like you could so easily and effortlessly do._   
>    
>  _Forgive me, Holmes, for I will never be close to your beautiful mind in such manner. I will try however to relive in those memories when I find it too hard to stare at an open fire, brandy in hand. You know, I have one thing to remember that is always so fond a memory it almost hurts. Do you remember how at ease we used to be? How silence was never a deafening weight but rather a comfortable companionship when we had used our reserves of energy?_   
>    
>  _I could always tell when you were exhausted and sometimes often, I could see you struggling to stay awake to indulge my need for company after rather difficult cases._   
>    
>  _Some people used to insult your cold and harsh reason, but I knew better. I knew that behind all of those things, behind that hard exterior, there was hiding an exceptional human being, a kind and noble man. I miss you, Holmes. Had I said?_   
>    
>  _The thing I have truly committed to memory with an implacable and ineffable fondness is your laugh. I think I was the only one who witnessed it, actually witness how profound and deep it was. Your real laugh. Just telling you this, I can hear it echoing. People will go to the opera and fall in love with a tenor or a soprano, let themselves be enveloped by sweet melodies and commit them to memory. To my ears, nothing will ever come close to the sound of your laughter._   
>    
>  _You have left me with a terrible void, Holmes. I don’t know if I shall ever recover._   
>    
>  _I miss you dearly,_   
>    
>  _Yours,_   
>    
>  _Watson._

 

After putting my second letter on the mantelpiece, I told myself it would be the last one. I left without looking back for almost three months, until I ran into a tall and lean stranger that reminded me of my friend. I thought for a while that I was on my way to recovering. I was not prepared to fall back down into a deep depression. I had not had a drink in months, and now it was terribly necessary I had one. I was so inebriated by the whiskey by the time I went home, I sat down for what would most surely be my last letter to my friend. I needed to tell him what I did not have the chance to say back when he was alive, in order to get a grasp and maybe finally move on.

>   
>  _My dear Holmes,_   
>    
>  _This shall be my last letter. I have spent too much time living like you would come back and sweep me off my feet. Ever the romantic, I wished and wished for a beautiful turning of events in which you would come back to life, to me, to Baker Street._   
>    
>  _Wishful thinking for years, now. Dreams, sometimes nightmares and oh, so many memories._   
>    
>  _I will always cherish you for everything that you were but I shall not dwell upon what you cannot ever be now. I can barely find the right words because if these letters ever see the light of day, I shall be put behind bars._   
>    
>  _Holmes, I have one last confession to make before I attempt to move on. You would find me absolutely disgusting and distasteful, with reason. I just have to get it out, because living in your shadow, living with the belief that you are still out there will eventually figuratively, or rather literally, kill me. I have to get a grasp and get back to the land of the living. I have believed for far too long that I died the same day you did, in some ways, that is true. A part of me died and will never come back, but there is a part of me that is still living and I shall try to live, apparently. How boring, you would say._   
>    
>  _Now, believe me, I know how you felt about sentiment, about romantic entanglements. I know that you treasured reason above all else. But you know me, ever the romantic._   
>    
>  _I should get to the point, Holmes but I can barely say... the depth of my feelings for you, they were not common friendship. I think you and I both knew we had a rather unconventional friendship but never acknowledged it further than a special bond. I know I was your truest friend and you were mine, I was always able to confide in you and you in me. This is my last confession... and the only confession I never shared with you for fear of how you might react. I knew our friendship went beyond mere conventions and I have to believe you would not have considered me deviant, but Holmes, how I wanted you. And when I say, wanted.. I mean in every way a man may want someone._   
>    
>  _I do not want to dwell upon the depth of my affections, I know you would have never given me away to the authorities. You were never subjected to any sort of dogma. You always had an open mind._
> 
> _I believe I kept it from you because our friendship was too important for me to want to risk it. You know, until your death, I genuinely believed it was the right choice. But now, how I wished I had at least told you. You would have known you were loved before leaving this world, and even if I would have been wounded by your rejection, I would have stayed by your side, being your friend through every case, without a single secret between us._   
>    
>  _My dear friend, how I wished I could have called you my lover. I know you would never have gone for such a deviant thing or such a repulsive and impaired man, but I know you would have let me down gently. I know your despise of emotions would have won the battle, reminding me of how such displays were dangerous. In a way, you would have been right._   
>    
>  _And there it is, Holmes, my last letter and the last confession I shall ever make._   
>    
>  _You were loved._   
>    
>  _Yours sincerely,_   
>    
>  _John._

* * *

 

After many weeks of self-hate, I was finally able to go back to work. I always found myself thinking of Holmes, but rather than feel sad, I felt happy I had time with him. I felt happy I had the chance to be his friend and know him, worship him. The guilt came at night when the nightmares took over me. I always had the same one, running against the clock and not being able to save him. I was never subject to nightmares, even with my previous time as a soldier. The only thing that really traumatised me to a point of no return was the loss of my friend.

One fateful night, I was putting away the remaining of my dinner when someone knocked at my door. Usually, at this hour, I could expect a patient with a trouble that could not wait until morning, which selfishly pleased me. I would have something to do instead of wallowing in self-pity. I opened the door and believed my mind was playing me a hateful trick, for, before me, I could see Sherlock Holmes. I tried to breathe and calm my beating heart, for I hoped for this for years and here he was. My mind and my pulse were racing, but I could not make sense of this. What I could only think was a ghost must have sensed something was amiss, because I felt hands on my shoulders and an attempt at making eye contact.

 

“Watson, do please breathe. You look quite pallid.” I would have recognised that voice everywhere. Holmes was standing before me.

“How are you here? You are dead. I must have gone insane.” My voice trembled and Holmes seemed shaken himself.

“I am here, Watson. I am alive,” and before he could finish that sentence, I felt myself encompassed with a terrifying rage, “Watson, let me explain before you do anything stupid.”

Holmes had always been an incredible fighter and he must have been able to tell I was about to hit him, for he stopped my punch and took my hand in his. I was now sure he was real and here, for he was touching me with the utmost delicacy even when I was attempting to hurt him.

“I have read your letters. I wish to discuss these with you, Watson. Will you let me?” He looked so broken, he looked like a shell of a man and I could not argue anymore. I had lost the fight even before trying to create it.

I felt tears running down my cheeks and Holmes put his hands on each side of my face, wiping every last one. I finally looked up and saw his eyes, which for once were not cold. He always had the most beautiful eyes and seeing his eyes water, I had to close mine.

“Holmes, how I wished for just this. This moment. Having you, here.”

He smiled, and it did not reach his eyes, “I know, Watson. I am sorry I could not return sooner. Let us sit and I will explain.”

I felt hurt and I knew I could not rely on containing my emotions, I had to send him away before doing anything to him. Or worse, make him believe me a degenerate and lose him once again.

“Holmes, you must go at once. I don’t know what I’ll do if you stay.”

He looked at me and seemed to understand I needed some time. He reached into his jacket and gave me an envelope, looked down and let himself out without another word.

 

* * *

Four days passed with me looking at the envelope he gave me without opening it, without contacting him. For years, I had hoped he would return, I had hoped he was alive and well. To know he was alive all that time, hurt me deeper than any bullet could have. I felt rejected, alone and more importantly, I missed him with every ounce of my being. How I wanted to just go to Baker Street and sit down with him, resume my life with him. But before I could do that, I needed to contain and hide my feelings for him. It would not do anyone good for me to continue to allow such deviant thoughts towards him. After four days, I had reached the limits of my body. I could not drink anymore, I felt sick and I felt it was time to read his letter. I was sure his letter was probably his way of letting me down gently, of telling me I was not meant to be his friend anymore, with all my unwanted feelings.  Even if our friendship was all I could ever get from him, for the time we had, even after knowing him aware of all my deepest secrets, I needed to read it, to make a final and hopefully, clean break.

>   
>    
>  _My dear Watson,_   
>    
>  _I found your letters. I read them all, more than once, and committed every word to a special room in my Mind Palace. Reading your words stirred deep emotions within me, emotions I always believed were one-sided._   
>    
>  _I write this to you because I fear that when I reveal my being alive, you will not want to talk to me. After so many years, how could I possibly blame you?_   
>    
>  _And if therefore you will not talk to me, at least, eventually you will read this. I believe you will read this on the fourth day, knowing you and your habits, you will be mad and drink a few nights in a row until your body does not agree to the treatment you inflict on it. On the fourth day, you shall find yourself reading my words._   
>    
>  _I promise, I’ll make it count, Watson. Particularly if this is the last you want to hear from me._   
>    
>  _Watson, you were right to believe me a heartless fellow. Nobody with their right mind would leave you behind for all those years. How many times I wanted to come back, and reunite with the only human being I ever cared about..._   
>    
>  _Watson, you are the best thing to ever happen to me. Believe me when I say I had to go away, for you and your safety. I would not have been able to live with myself had I caused you harm, and yet here we are... I believed strongly I was protecting you, shielding you and I can see the errors in my way, I see it in the words you poured in your letters. I caused you harm, I caused you misery and for that, I hope you will accept my sincerest apologies._   
>    
>  _I have reached a critical point. Pouring my heart into a letter is not my strong suit, and it will be my first and last attempt at it if you do not come back._   
>    
>  _Watson, I would have never believed you a deviant nor been repulsed by an attempt at seduction from you. In fact, one thing that kept me going all these years is believing I would eventually come back to you and confess my deepest and darkest secrets. I share your affections with a profound yearning. I have never shown my soul to anyone but you. Know this, I am yours if you still want me._   
>    
>  _I apologize for my poor attempt at a love letter, but believe these words my dear, I share every desire you mentioned. I yearn for your touch, whether it be your hand on my neck or your lips on mine. I have imagined rather fondly how our first kiss would be, and many other firsts._   
>    
>  _I have missed you, I have missed our comfortable nights more than I could ever miss the thrill of a case. I have realized over the years that nothing is worth getting a heartbeat if I cannot share it with you._   
>    
>  _I believe the only thing left I have to say is a little sentence, three more words. But Watson, I will not do it. I would rather utter them in your ear, in a way that would make you reciprocate the same words. Will you grant me one more chance? Will you let me say it, once and for all so that we can go on living the sweetest love story behind our own closed doors? Come to Baker Street at once, if convenient._
> 
> _If inconvenient, come anyway._   
>    
>  _Forever yours,_   
>    
>  _Sherlock._

 

Before I could think clearly, I had already grabbed my hat and coat and was out the door. I was running towards Baker Street, hoping to find my friend sitting in his armchair. I reached the door and without thinking about it, I let myself in with the key I kept all these years. I walked up the stairs and opened the door to find Holmes asleep on the sofa. He must have been exhausted, he probably did not sleep well all these years away from home. I looked at him and I could tell his sleep was troubled, his face was crisped and he was making pained sounds. I put my hand on his shoulder and tried to wake him.

“Holmes, wake up, my dear.” And it is all it took, for he opened his eyes, searching for me. Once his ethereal eyes stopped, locking with mine, he just smiled. The sweetest and most intimate smile I had ever seen him produce.

He took a big breath, “Watson.”

I bent down, and whispered, “I am here, and if you let me, I will never leave your side again.”

He started crying just then, and if my heart had not been broken many times, I would have sworn I could hear it crack open.

Concern reached my face, and before thinking about it, I made him sit up, putting both my hands on his knees, trying to reach his eyes, “Holmes, what is it?”

“How will you ever forgive me for what I have done to you?” His voice was trembling and I had never seen my friend subject to such emotion.

“I forgive you, Holmes, for you are here now. And believe me, I was hurt. I went to hell. But you are here, in front of me, and I believe you want me as much as I want you. This is all I have ever wished for, and I will not let anything get in the way of that anymore.”

“I never thought I would be able to feel love. Hate, I easily could. Still can. I hated myself for so long… but Watson, I loved you so much all this time that I forgot what hating myself felt like. You make me complete. I thought sentiment was a defect, but how wrong I was… I have never felt happier than with you. I love you so much. Will you risk everything and love me back? Will you let me make it up to you, for the rest of our lives? Shall we go on living a secret, knowing the consequences if we are found out? Tell me it’s worth it, Watson.”

“Holmes, there is nothing I could want more than that. I love you with everything that I am and I will give myself to you completely, whatever the risks, whatever the obstacles. Now, only one question remains.”

“What is it?”

“May I kiss you, Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh, I hope you do much more than just kiss me or I will go mad.”

 

* * *

 

After a few days of dancing around each other, of heavy breathing and snogging sessions on the sofa, I felt myself smiling for no reason many times during the day. I was now back at Baker Street with Holmes, and I felt content. We had declared our love for each other and I was incredibly happy.

Holmes and I had not yet engaged in carnal desires, not for the lack of wanting to on either part. Our snogging sessions almost always ended with each of us retreating to our own room to ‘take care of ourselves’. I had expressed to Holmes that I was more than ready to engage in sexual contact, to show him once and for all the depth of my desire for him. Holmes told me he wanted to explain himself before engaging in that, for fear that his desire would cloud his judgement. For once, he was the saner of us.

Holmes told me all about his time away, from dismantling Moriarty’s web to having to save children in a human trafficking ring. He was honest and concise in his reciting of the years past, not leaving anything out. He told me how he made his way back to me, and it was at this moment that from our place on the sofa, he looked up at me and just revelled in the sensation of comfort, at home.

“This, thinking about being home with you… it kept me sane. You have no idea how many times you saved me with only the thought of you, John.”

We had started calling each other by our first names a few days prior and hearing him say it still made my cheeks blush.

“Sherlock, you really are a hero, at least to me. God, I love you.” He smiled and blushed, looking away like he was shy.

“I never thought I’d utter these words and yet, I cannot stop myself from saying them… I love you, too. More than you will ever know.” Sherlock said, with his deep baritone voice that made my stomach flutter.

“How about you show me?” I winked, making my intentions clear.

“My bedroom or yours?” He asked.

“Yours, I’ll lock the doors.”

“Hurry, I cannot wait to have you.” He whispered in my ear and it made me shiver with want.

I got up, locked the doors and went to my medical bag for petroleum jelly. When I reached Holmes’ bedroom door, he was waiting for me and pinned me to the door once he closed it. His eyes were dark and his breathing heavy, I could see desire written across his face. He leaned down and kissed me, pouring everything he felt into the most passionate kiss I ever experienced. His hands travelled my body, one settling down on the side of my neck, before going to my hair and the other slowly making his way down my back, reaching my arse. I kissed back, letting my hands roam over his body, pulling on him to get him closer. When he moaned, I decided it was time for our clothes to stop being in the way of our love.

Having undressed him and myself, I pushed him slowly to the bed. He was looking at me and I could tell he was hungry. I laid him down and hovered above him. His eyes settled on my erect prick and all I could do was the same. Looking at each other once again, he smiled devilishly.

“Watson, if you do not have me right now, I might die.”

I leaned down and kissed him with fervor again, letting one of my hand travel his body, worshipping everything I could reach with the utmost care. I started kissing down his neck when my hand reached his belly, and he arched up into me. I could not help the moan that escaped my lips and looked at him, asking for permission. He nodded and I resumed kissing his neck while my hand reached for the petroleum jelly. I stopped to cover my hand with it before taking his very hard prick into my hand. He was making the most delicious sounds and I felt more aroused than I had ever been, ready to explode.

“John. Please.”

“Tell me what you want, tell me what you need, love.” I kissed him again and let my tongue ravage his mouth, and I could tell this was the moment his brain shut off.

“I need you to take me. I crave to feel you inside me. Please.”

That is all he needed to say for me to groan and start to prepare him. I kissed my way down his body, biting on his nipples and licking them, making him a disheveled mess of want. He was panting when I kissed his thighs and I decided to finally indulge him, kissing the top of his prick. I once again coated my fingers with petroleum jelly, while I sucked down his prick and up again. I was building a slow rhythm as to not push him over the edge, allowing my fingers to travel near his puckered flesh. Sherlock Holmes was now a trembling mess, craving for release and I was panting, almost in pain, needing to relieve the pressure. I turned him over on his stomach as to prepare him quickly, I made him get on his knees and reached down to lick his crack. He trashed back on my face and I let my tongue wander, breaching his hole once.

“Oh, oh, John, you are a hero, too.”

I laughed and finally obliged, letting one finger breach him slowly, making him ask for more in seconds. I was also giving a few strokes to his prick while I prepared him, and when I touched his prostate, he let his head fall into the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds he was making. When three fingers were going in and out easily, I coated my prick and positioned myself between his knees.

“Turn on your back, I want to see your face when I enter you. I want to cherish that memory for the rest of my life.”

He moaned and turned before I repositioned myself. I let the head of my prick enter him slowly, and he cried out my name repeatedly as I slowly made my way inside.

“You have to move, now. I am afraid I will finish before you have even moved.” He breathed out and I started moving, thrusting in and out of him.

I could barely contain my orgasm, but I wanted to make him feel good before allowing myself such pleasure. I took his prick in hand once again, took a pillow that I placed under his hips, I finally angled myself as to hit his prostate on every thrust and in under a minute, he coated my fingers with a copious amount, biting on his own arm as to not shout and if this was not the hottest thing to ever happened to me, I do not know what was. Two more thrusts and I reached my own climax, unloading a copious amount in my lover.

His eyes were on me and I can only describe what I saw as love, of the purest kind.

“Watson, tell me we can do this every day.”

I laughed heartily, knowing I had made his first experience pleasurable.

“Of course, Holmes. I’d be delighted.”

He was laughing too, and that was it, the sound that will always make me happy. I kissed him slowly before getting up to bring back a cloth and wash ourselves. By the time I laid down again, he reached for me and held me close, his eyes on mine.

“I love you, John Watson.”

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

We fell asleep entangled in each other and I cannot remember when I ever slept so well.

 

* * *

 

 

> In all the years I shared with Holmes, in every place we have been, in every room we made our love evident, in every proof that we loved each other with a depth that goes beyond words, in every declaration, I knew one thing with absolute certainty. In every universe, he was made for me and I, for him. And we would always find our way back to each other.
> 
> And henceforth, my sincerest advice... when you can barely say, when you cannot find the right words, whatever the obstacles, it will always be better to risk it all in the name of love. Love without fear, love without prejudice. Love does not discriminate, it will always find you, and sometimes in the most innocuous way. If you cannot say it, write it. I know a thing or two about now, and let me tell you, there is not going to be one day in any universe where ‘I love you’ is not worth being said.
> 
> And now, it is time for me to put down my pen and live my life, not through tales or letters but in the real world, with the love of my life.
> 
>   
>  _John Watson_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have not proofread this story at this time, nor is English my first language. I apologize for any mistake. I hope you like this short story as much as I do.


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